


Burn Together

by Irrealia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Online Dating, Banter, Gandalf Meddles, M/M, Makeouts, Online Dating, Shipper Trash Gandalf, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf gives Bilbo a smartphone—for work.</p><p>That's just the beginning.</p><p>--</p><p>This AU owes its existence to <a href="http://bisexualthorin.tumblr.com/post/142639344312/im-remembering-that-part-in-the-appendices-where">a post by @bisexualthorin</a>, but then it got away from me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: An Unexpected Match

 

> _Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly_  
>  _Of all the things that are the outward you,_  
>  _And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through_  
>  _To webs of my own weaving, or I see_  
>  _Abstractedly your hands about your knee_  
>  _And wonder why I love you as I do,_  
>  _Then I recall, “Yet_ Sorrow _thus he drew”;_  
>  _Then I consider, “_ Pride _thus painted he.”_  
>  _Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note_  
>  _In me a beauty that was never mine,_  
>  _How first you knew me in a book I wrote,_  
>  _How first you loved me for a written line:_  
>  _So are we bound till broken is the throat_  
>  _Of Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine.  
>  —_ Edna St. Vincent Millay

**Monday, 22 September 2014**

The damned thing had been a gift, but Bilbo Baggins had always appreciated the finer things in life, and in the end, he’d come to appreciate this one too. However, when he first unwrapped the rectangular lozenge of a present that Gandalf had brought him, his whole face had puckered up in a little frown.

‘Go on, open the box, Bilbo,’ urged Gandalf, with a smile undimmed by Bilbo’s apparent displeasure.

Somewhat sceptically, Bilbo prised open the sleek white box that had lain beneath the tasteful silver wrapping paper. Inside the box, there was a gleaming golden mobile. A smartphone, to be precise. Absolutely the latest model—as if Gandalf would get him anything else. The sort of thing he’d been steadfastly not purchasing for some years now.

His eyebrows drew together; his frown deepened. But when he plucked it out of the box, even the grumpiest part of him could not help but admit that it felt nice, in his hands. Just the right weight, just the right size, shiny and smooth.

Ohhh, Gandalf was a right git sometimes.

‘I’ll leave you some time to get acquainted with it, shall I?’ offered Gandalf all too helpfully, as he took the device from Bilbo’s hands, and showed him which button to press to turn it on. ‘It’s all set up with a plan and everything, so the only thing you need to do is just pay the bill. Shouldn’t be more than you can afford, dear boy.’ Gandalf’s eyes softened momentarily. ‘Your parents certainly made sure you’d be comfortable, so you might as well enjoy even the most modern of comforts.’

‘You’re just cross because I didn’t call you back about that job,’ retorted Bilbo, but there was no real bite to it.

‘Quite cross I was too. It was a challenging bit of work that you’d have quite enjoyed, and I had to give it to someone else when I didn’t hear from you. I know you hate telephones, Bilbo, but I think you might actually make peace with this one, since the modern fashion seems to be sending messages in text instead of actually speaking. Bit more your speed, don’t you think?’

Bilbo could only snort in response. Damned if Gandalf didn’t know him entirely too well. He nodded his head in an obscure gesture of resignation, acceptance, and thanks, taking the phone back from Gandalf, letting it settle in his hands. Gandalf, meanwhile, left a small pile of manuals and mobile phone contracts on the kitchen island for Bilbo, and grabbed his hat and coat. ‘Well I must be going now, thank you ever so much for a lovely lunch, Bilbo.’

‘I suppose I owe you something equally thoughtful for Christmas then,’ said Bilbo, by way of goodbye. ‘And I’m sure you’ll be hearing from me soon enough.’ He gave Gandalf a cheeky little salute, and then his sort-of uncle and sometime employer showed himself out the door, in spirits quite as high as they ever were—maybe a little bit higher.

He had not been perusing the entirely too-thick user manual for the damned thing for five minutes when his new phone made some kind of delicate chiming noise.

His very first text message. Clumsily, Bilbo poked at the right icons until the message was displayed in full, and then he poked at the letters one by one until he’d formulated what he hoped was an appropriate response.

Having satisfactorily figured out how to respond to a message, he set his shiny new mobile aside and turned to his laptop to get back to the translation that he was working on.

(No matter what Gandalf might say, Bilbo was _not_  a luddite. He just didn’t like phones.)

Soon he was so lost in his work that when his new phone chimed again, some hours later, it startled him quite badly. He didn’t ordinarily keep devices in his house that made sudden noises. It was some minutes before it occurred to him that it might be the phone, since this time the chime was a bit different, but when he looked at it, there was a message on the screen.

Bilbo poked at this notification, too, sliding his finger over it curiously, which brought him to an entirely different screen that showed a picture of a rather striking bearded man with dark trim hair, fair skin, and eyes so blue that by all rights, they shouldn’t exist.

‘You matched with Thorin 2 minutes ago. Live as if you die today, dream as if you live forever.’

That was supposed to be an encouragement to send a message to this intense-looking man that he had somehow ‘matched’ with. But just as he was staring at the screen in bewilderment, a message popped up from the mysterious Thorin instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Bilbo’s birthday in 2014 was indeed a few days after the release of the iPhone 6.
> 
> \- Tinder really does make ludicrous suggestions like the above; honestly I took that text straight from the app. Of all the “canon” sources to quote from… 
> 
> \- http://techcrunch.com/gallery/a-brief-history-of-tinder/ if you’re curious


	2. An Underwhelming Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against his better judgement, Bilbo meets Thorin.

**Monday, 22 September 2014: Evening**

It was at this point in the apparent invasion of his sacrosanct privacy that Bilbo was sorely tempted to fling his shiny new mobile across the room, and it was only the fact that it was such a well-crafted object that stayed his hand. And anyway, it wasn’t the _phone’s_ fault.

No, it wasn’t the phone’s fault. It was Gandalf, that meddlesome arse. Which meant that there probably wasn’t any point in asking Gandalf what he’d done. Bilbo knew all too well that he would just _smile_ and circumnavigate his way around any meaningful conversation with the damnable skill of long practice.

What Bilbo needed, he reckoned, was someone who knew how these damned things worked. He needed a digital native, a proper so-called Millennial. He needed his cousin Drogo.

He sent Drogo an email, which for all he knew was probably not the done thing, but at least it was something.

 

**Tuesday, 23 September 2014**

‘If you don’t want it, I’ll take it off your hands,’ was the first thing Drogo said when he popped round Bilbo’s flat the next afternoon to help him sort out the mysteries of the mobile. Fresh out of uni and somewhat predictably unemployed, his covetous expression in the face of Bilbo’s unlooked-for technological windfall was only to be expected, and his fingers tenderly stroked the wide black screen and the as-yet-unmarred golden sides and back.

‘It’s for work,’ said Bilbo by way of refusal, scrunching his nose.

‘Who’s Thorin?’ asked Drogo. ‘Client?’ The lock screen was peppered with fiery notifications, and Drogo had clearly had a peek at what they were all about.

‘No, see, that’s precisely the problem,” said Bilbo, massaging his still-scrunched nose with thumb and forefinger and taking a deep breath. ‘I’ve no sodding clue how I’m getting messages from someone I’ve never even met, let alone given my number to. I don’t even know what the number of the bloody phone is!’

Drogo poked a few places on the screen—Bilbo found he couldn’t view it properly at an angle, so he wasn’t entirely sure which icons Drogo was poking at. Then Drogo rattled off the number: ‘07700 900527’. Bilbo found himself scrambling to write it down on a piece of paper, which he then promptly tacked to his refrigerator with a sigh.

‘All right. So now I can give the number to anyone if I wanted to do such a thing. But I didn’t give it to this _Thorin_ , whoever he is!’

‘Of course not,’ said Drogo amiably, ‘it’s an app, innit. Lets you find and chat to people you’re interested in.’ Bilbo blinked. ‘An application, like on your laptop. ‘Cept more lightweight, goes on your phone,’ clarified Drogo. ‘All sorts of apps: calculators and weather reports and games and email and chatting. This one’s for, uh…’ Drogo’s face pinked up a bit, and he cleared his throat loudly. Bilbo fixed him with a steely gaze and did not relent until Drogo finished his explanation. ‘Sex, actually. Everyone at uni started using it last year. Shows you pictures of people nearby, and you just swipe right if you’re interested, left if you’re not. If you’re both interested it lets you chat. Don’t have to give out your number or anything.’

Drogo paused, and Bilbo watched confusion spread over his face as his cousin realised what the problem was. ‘But if you don’t even know what an app is, how’d you install it and set up a profile?’

‘Exactly!’ cried Bilbo. ‘I didn’t!’

Drogo let out a long, low whistle as he handed the phone back to Bilbo. ‘That is just a _bit_ weird.’

The phone, alas, was displaying Bilbo’s profile. It was getting harder and harder to resist the urge to throw it across the room.

 

 

**Wednesday, 24 September 2014**

  

 

**Thursday, 25 September 2014**

The downside to working from home as a freelance translator was that Bilbo had very little in his diary apart from the occasional deadline. Consequently, he had very little excuse _not_ to go meet Thorin at the appointed time and place. Besides, some part of him felt rather determined to show this Thorin, with his unreasonable eyes and very stupid… everything… that he actually owned a variety of very nice clothes, thank you very much, only a subset of which was meant for bed or bath. He couldn’t quite explain where the urge came from; he was usually content with his generally solitary career and quiet life. And yet here he was, headed towards a mystery restaurant to meet a mystery man, dressed to the nines in a suit. A three-piece suit. With a proper waistcoat. _And a pocket square_.

When he got to the restaurant, he found, almost to his annoyance, that it was perfectly lovely, not a single thing that he could take issue with. The building was older and just a bit quaint, but the décor was modern and charming, the lights were soft and intimate, and it looked lively enough that Bilbo was convinced of its quality, although it was not quite so popular that it would be impossible to get a table. (Or perhaps it was just that it was a Thursday.) He scanned through the crowd briefly, but in the absence of any unreasonably attractive dark-haired men, asked the hostess for a table for two, and spent his time perusing the menu.

It was then that Bilbo found out the restaurant’s specialty was _tapas_ , of all things. He could certainly take issue with _tapas_ , all those tiny plates for too much money, and nothing properly filling to be found. He quietly harrumphed, muttering to himself a bit and flipping over to the drinks menu. He was just about to wave down the waitstaff for a glass of wine when, raising his eyes, he was treated to the sight of a rather large and, yes, very handsome man looming over him.

Bilbo’s eyes widened, and he blinked a bit rapidly. He hadn’t really planned what he might do beyond actually going to the restaurant, and was, momentarily, at a loss.

‘Thorin,’ said the really entirely too tall man, proffering a wide, capable-looking hand for shaking. ‘At your service.’ His mouth quirked a bit, just a millimetre shy of a smile.

‘Bilbo,’ replied Bilbo. ‘And that’s rather forward of you. I hardly think I’ll be requiring your, ahem, services just yet.’

The mouth-quirk quivered ever so slightly, as if Thorin might have laughed under other circumstances, but was holding himself back for the moment. He shrugged one eyebrow at Bilbo, and then casually pulled his chair out, and swept himself into it. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting,’ said Thorin. ‘I got a bit turned around on the way here.’

Bilbo nodded his acceptance of Thorin’s apology, although he privately wondered how anyone could get lost on their way to a restaurant they had themselves selected. In the moment when Bilbo was lost in thought, Thorin and his preternaturally long arms were flagging down a passing waiter, and then he was imperiously ordering a bottle of wine for both of them. This time it was Bilbo’s turn to arch an eyebrow at Thorin, who shrugged with his shoulders this time. ‘I like wine,’ he said. And that was that. The wine—a dry Spanish red—was brought out forthwith and a sample poured for Thorin to approve, then full glasses poured for each of them. And _then_ , Thorin just as imperiously ordered a variety of food for them to share, whilst Bilbo nervously buried his nose in the great, bowl-like glass for the wine, and sipped at his drink.

(It was, much to his distress, quite delicious.)

Then Thorin turned the full intensity of his gaze on Bilbo, and for a moment his breath stopped. All of him stopped, face buried in wine glass, as Thorin _looked_ at him.

The way Thorin looked at him made Bilbo wonder if anyone else ever really had.

‘You came,’ said Thorin, by way of conversation.

After gracelessly swallowing somewhat-too-large a mouthful of wine and very nearly choking, Bilbo nodded. ‘Gandalf went to so much trouble to find you for me after all,’ he answered with a studied casual air.

‘Gandalf,’ said Thorin. ‘Unusual name, sounds familiar. You mentioned him before. How do you know him?’

‘He’s my boss,’ answered Bilbo. ‘Well, I say boss, but as I’m self-employed I don’t have a boss, properly speaking. He finds jobs for me here and there. Dear Lord that sounds a bit sinister doesn’t it. I’m a translator, whatever it is he does gives him lots of connections overseas who need help with English-language documentation. It’s quite boring actually, but he’s an old friend of my mother’s and I always did like solving language problems.’

He shut himself up with more wine, but he couldn’t drink forever, and when he had finally swallowed his second overlarge mouthful, Thorin was still looking at him with that unnerving intensity.

‘But _you_ messaged _me_ ,’ said Bilbo finally, forcing himself to look at Thorin straight on, taking in the dark beard and hair flecked with silver, the tall and powerful build of the man, and the rather nice but minimal navy wool suit that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.

‘I did,’ acknowledged Thorin lightly. ‘You didn’t seem the usual type.’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ asked Bilbo, who dipped his nose back into the wine glass immediately after asking. At this rate, they were going to go through the entire bottle more quickly than he liked to contemplate.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ replied Thorin candidly.

‘Whether I merit your “services,”’ added Bilbo, with a high-pitched, nervous giggle.

‘Or whether I’m interested in yours,’ rejoined Thorin, still candid, and seemingly utterly sincere.

‘I didn’t realise I’d offered mine,’ replied Bilbo, as calmly as he could. With anyone else, Bilbo thought, this would be romantic comedy banter. With Thorin, it did actually seem to be a straightforward negotiation, and he wasn’t certain whether he liked it.

Fortunately for both of them, before Thorin could take offence, the food arrived, and their heretofore reasonably sized table seemed to shrink as it was crowded with a variety of plates holding a pleasant if woefully undersized array of food. Bilbo put on his best excited face and dove in; Thorin ate somewhat more sedately.

Given that it was _tapas_ , the respite offered by the food didn’t last very long, although it was (Bilbo had to admit) delicious while it lasted. Bilbo and Thorin were both fairly quiet—contemplating the other, perhaps. When they did speak, they made polite conversation about the food, small talk about each other. Thorin, it came out, did some kind of consulting, which explained the unusual choice of date night, and there was something about a family business. Bilbo talked a little more about his own work, although he couldn’t imagine Thorin would find it particularly interesting.

The servers cleared away the plates, and placed a small black folder with the check squarely in the middle of the table. Bilbo reached for it, but Thorin got there first, and tucked a credit card into the little folder after giving it a cursory glance. “Since I was the one who asked,” he explained, laying it to the side to be picked up. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a tiny square foil packet, and slid it across the table towards Bilbo.

“Your profile gave me to understand you fancied a bit of adventure. My flat’s not far. Shall we?”

Bilbo stared wide-eyed for a minute, face slowly growing hotter and hotter. Words would not obey him. Words did not seem to exist. Who on _earth_ did this _stranger_ think he was?

He took one slow, deep breath, and, with one finger, slid the packet back across the table. “Thank you for dinner, Thorin, that was lovely, but I’ll be going now, and I’ll appreciate it if I don’t hear from you again.”

Then he was out of the restaurant before he could even remember moving, headed straight home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Spain: I’m sorry. 
> 
> The restaurant suggested by Thorin *ahem* coincidentally happens to be the restaurant from Sherlock 1.01 where John and Sherlock have their first “date.” (I may have rewatched “A Study in Pink” for modern au inspiration.) It actually is a tapas restaurant, and I can’t imagine Bilbo being impressed by the small plates thing. Enjoy, if you’re in London: http://www.brindisatapaskitchens.com/
> 
> The full picture of Martin Freeman in the burgundy suit: http://therake.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/151029_Shot_02_00058_RET_04_flat.jpg


	3. A More or Less Expected Party

**Sunday, 28 September 2014**

   

And that was the end of that, thought Bilbo, as he checked his matches later that day and found Thorin no longer among them. In fact, since Bilbo had done very little with the app except chatting to Thorin, he now had none at all. Out of a weird sense of absence he flipped through a few photos of local men and women, but all of them seemed… tedious, somehow. ‘Not interested in endless chats,’ wrote one, and ‘I’m a father of two and a husband of one,’ confessed another, who then clarified, ‘but I’m open to flirts and new friendships.’

Bilbo sighed heavily at humanity collectively, and then he went back to his book. He had rather happily spent the weekend cocooned in his flat reading some rather twee but fun alternate history books about dragons and the Napoleonic Wars. If pressed, Bilbo would have admitted that they were very silly, but they were meeting his needs for adventure and distraction far better than Thorin would have done.

So with that exchange over and done with, Bilbo pushed Thorin rather forcefully out of his mind, and when he found the scrap of paper where he’d jotted down Thorin’s number, he shoved it into the back of a desk drawer where he almost certainly wouldn’t be looking again anytime soon. 

 

 **Tuesday, 30 September 2014**  

** **

 

**Saturday, 4 October 2014**

Despite having known the man since his infancy, Bilbo honestly had no idea where Gandalf lived. In his car, for all Bilbo knew, or perhaps he travelled so much that he had no fixed residence, and only ever wandered from one hotel to another. If he did have a flat, or a house, Bilbo certainly didn’t know where it was, and had never been there. Thus it was that Gandalf’s ‘small gathering’ was actually being held at his club, and there were easily 100 people or more present.

Not only was he a git, he was a show-off. After all, it wasn’t as if there were some kind of special event that required celebrating. No, Gandalf simply felt like having a party.

Although Bilbo rarely enjoyed large rooms full of unfamiliar people, tonight he wasn’t especially minded to bemoan his circumstances. The facilities—all modern minimalism in a refurbished Georgian townhouse —really were lovely. Waiters were milling amongst the crowd bearing trays full of endless delicious snacks, and there was a free bar. In a quick scan of the crowd, he spotted some people that he’d been to school with, as well as any number of more exotic types: inhumanly glamourous men and women who were either Peers or models; business types  in suits and frocks of varying quality from ‘H&M’ to ‘bespoke.’ Gandalf’s circle of acquaintance was truly wide and varied, and even if Bilbo was usually something of a wallflower, the people-watching tonight would at least be first rate.

He was just about to cross the room to find Gandalf and say hello when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a familiar tall bearded man standing on the other side of the crowd.

Well. Fuck. It was a good thing there was a free bar. Bilbo headed straight for it, head down, before he could attract the attention of anyone else. Before _Thorin_ noticed he was here. It was true that Thorin had ‘unmatched’ him, had made no effort to get in touch with him over the past week or so, but he hadn’t _generally_ shown a great deal of restraint in his behaviour, insofar as Bilbo could tell from their brief acquaintance, and he wasn’t inclined to give Thorin any openings.

He made it to the bar unmolested, ordered a brandy smash from the bartender, and then turned around only to find that in the brief span of time while he’d been ordering his drink, Thorin had somehow popped up next to him, and _Gandalf was behind Thorin_ , giving him a hearty pat on the back.

Bilbo didn’t know which of them to greet first, or how, so he sipped at his drink, looking as innocent as possible, whilst Gandalf presumed to undertake the introductions—for the second time.

‘Bilbo, lad! So glad you could make it,’ he exclaimed, patting Bilbo on the back with the same paternal gesture he had afforded Thorin. ‘This is Thorin. I used to know his grandfather, and we were just having a nice little chat about good old Thror.’

‘Thror,’ laughed Bilbo. ‘Were your grandparents Vikings, Thorin?’ The words hopped out of his mouth before it occurred to him that perhaps one would do better to not make jokes about the names of failed dates’ dead grandfathers.

‘Norwegian, actually, so yes—more or less,’ said Thorin, who smiled with his mouth alone.

‘Funny, you don’t sound Norwegian. Rather more Yorkshire actually.” At that point, Bilbo actually clapped a hand over his mouth.

‘Grandfather was an engineer, started a company back in the 60s to drill for oil in the North Sea; the family eventually wound up in Scotland trying to expand the business. It all fell to pieces shortly thereafter.’

Thorin didn’t elaborate. Bilbo supposed he probably wouldn’t either, if he’d been put on the spot like that. But now that Bilbo thought on it, Northern brashness and oil money would do a lot to explain Thorin.

So he nodded politely and simply said, ‘That sounds like it must’ve been difficult, and I’m really sorry, that was rather tactless of me.’

‘It was,’ replied Thorin in that particular way of his, straightforward without being in any way forthcoming. Then he softened ever so momentarily. ‘Difficult, that is.’

‘That’s an understatement!’ said Gandalf, who thumped Thorin on the back in an excess of physical sympathy. ‘Still, I think you’ve made quite something of yourself, Thorin. Thror would be proud.’ And then, being Gandalf, his head jerked up as he spotted someone else he had to greet on the other side of the room. ‘I’m sure you understand how it is, boys, and I’m sure I’ll catch up with you both soon,’ he said by way of a too-abrupt goodbye, and then he was whirling off, a social force of nature in an unassuming grey wool suit.

Bilbo and Thorin were left standing next to each other.  

‘Let me get you another drink,’ said Thorin. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘I appreciate the offer,’ said Bilbo. ‘But it is a free bar.’

‘Oh,’ said Thorin, who for once seemed to be at something of a loss. ‘Well, since you never texted, the least I can do is keep my word and leave you be. For what it’s worth,’ and here he sighed ever so slightly, and inclined his head towards Bilbo,  ‘I’m sorry I misjudged you.’

Thorin made to leave, as promised, but before he could go anywhere, Bilbo’s hand seemed to act of its own accord, catching Thorin by the sleeve of his blazer.

Thorin turned back around slowly, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Bilbo shrugged helplessly in the face of his intense stare. ‘Would you believe me,’ he asked, ‘if I said that I barely knew how to text?’

Bilbo wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected, but Thorin laughed at that. ‘I wonder how you survive in this world,’ he said, with a disbelieving shake of his head.

‘Well,’ replied Bilbo, ‘that’s plainly why Gandalf gave me the phone. He was under the impression that I needed to be more _connected_.’

‘Gandalf,’ said Thorin, in a less merry tone of voice. ‘I knew I recognised the name, when you mentioned it.’

‘Old friend of your grandfather, old friend of my mother,’ said Bilbo. ‘I think he feels obliged to look after me, in his own odd way. Probably feels obliged to look after you too.’

‘Odd indeed,’ said Thorin. He paused momentarily. ‘So you might have texted, then?’

‘Why don’t you get me that drink?’ said Bilbo, instead of answering. ‘Brandy smash.’

Thorin obliged. Ordering the drink and bringing it back was really only the work of a few minutes, but it was a few minutes for Bilbo to breathe, to slowly put himself back together.

Bilbo, it has to be said, was not the type to handle surprises particularly well.

‘I don’t know if I would have texted,’ said Bilbo as Thorin returned, accepting the drink with as much grace as he could muster. ‘I would’ve had to respond with poetry of my own, and I’m a bit rusty.’

Thorin looked caught between a laugh and a snarl; Bilbo couldn’t hide his amusement, smiling broadly. And then still smiling, he recited: ‘“A fond kiss, and then we sever; a farewell, and then forever!” There, there’s your poetry, Thorin.’

‘If we kissed,’ said Thorin, ‘I wouldn’t want it to be a farewell.’

‘Oh I think you made it perfectly clear what you want last time we met,’ said Bilbo, draining his glass and setting it aside. ‘And you proposed much more than kissing, so no, I don’t suppose you’d want that to be the end. Are you this stubborn about everything?’

‘Am I the stubborn one here?’ snorted Thorin. His words were dismissive, but his eyes held a strange and unfamiliar plea. ‘I’ve already apologised for misjudging you, Bilbo. Would you not admit that you may have misjudged me as well? Don’t assume you know what I want.’

‘Then you shall have to tell me,’ said Bilbo, ‘if you don’t want me to use past experience as a guide.’ He arched one eyebrow at Thorin, his expression somewhere between disbelief and challenge.

Thorin showed him instead. Gently, more gently than Bilbo might have thought possible before this moment, Thorin put his hand on the small of Bilbo’s back and guided him to a secluded little alcove where the lights were dim. Bilbo swayed a bit (and thought better of having finished his drink so quickly); Thorin put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders to steady him. Bilbo looked up at Thorin, and Thorin caught his chin, then ever so carefully tipped his face up.

Bilbo caught his eyelids fluttering and laughed internally at himself just a little bit as Thorin cradled his cheek in his hand, and dipped down for a kiss. He might have expected something as rough or as blatant as Thorin’s ‘gesture’ had been at their first meeting, but the kiss was anything but. Kissing Thorin was all soft lips and gentle hints of tongue, tiny prickles of beard, and little caresses of ear and neck. His other arm wound lower around Bilbo’s waist to pull their bodies flush against each other, and Bilbo gasped against Thorin’s mouth, moved by the combination of intimacy and restraint.

It was Bilbo deepening the kiss then, his cheeks burning. His arms came up to wrap around Thorin’s neck—damn the man for being a head taller than him—and the two lost themselves in kissing for a long, long time. Thorin’s arousal was apparent, pressed against each other as they were, and Bilbo’s must have been equally plain in return, but they neither of them pushed for more, entirely content with, entirely enraptured by kissing.

Eventually they parted, short of breath and panting. Bilbo looked at Thorin with quiet astonishment; Thorin looked at Bilbo as if some new mystery of the universe had been revealed before his eyes.

And then Bilbo looked away, hardly able to bear it, and fished for a pen in his pockets instead. He took Thorin’s hand and scribbled on it.

‘I don’t know how to text,’ said Bilbo. ‘But I do know how to respond.’

 

**Sunday, 5 October 2014**

Bilbo woke up with a fierce headache and a weird sensation of longing and regret that he couldn’t quite place. He stumbled to the medicine cabinet for some water and paracetamol, only to notice a mild redness on his face, a certain swollen feeling to his lips and… dear lord, was that a bruise on his neck? He grabbed his dressing gown and pulled it on hastily, tugging up the collar. Some misplaced sense of propriety demanded that he cover it up, even though he was at home, and quite alone, and there was no one to see except himself.

He hadn’t thought that he’d got quite so carried away with Thorin, but the drinks had plainly affected him more than he’d thought as well. He still couldn’t explain his own actions properly, even to himself. He’d been so perfectly put off by Thorin the first time that he couldn’t imagine how he wound up snogging half the night in a corner with him the second. There had just been something more… human, he supposed, about Thorin-in-context, Thorin with a Norwegian grandfather named _Thror_ , Thorin with some kind of unfortunate past, as opposed to the suave, decontextualised man that the app had presented him with.

It certainly hadn’t hurt—or helped—that Thorin had plied him with alcohol, bringing them both more drinks after those first two back to their little hideaway, which Bilbo supposed was as good an excuse as any for kissing an unfairly attractive man who also happened to be a persuasive, presumptuous arse. Through the fog of his headache, Bilbo could remember parting from him amiably enough. And indeed, poking at his phone revealed that Thorin was looking back on his night fondly, however unsure Bilbo might be feeling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ask me about my collection of Tinder screenshots. This part of the fic writes itself. 
> 
> \- Bilbo is reading the Temeraire series by Naomi Novik. Why haven’t you read it already? It’s amazing and _so fun_.
> 
> \- Kitty’s britpicking and general advising in my stuck moments is glorious.
> 
> \- The brandy smash: because Gandalf would absolutely hire bartenders who knew how to make Victorian cocktails.
> 
> \- Bilbo quotes Robert Burns, but Thorin’s poem is—for better or for worse—original.

**Author's Note:**

> \- “Screenshots” were made with http://ios.foxsash.com/ + a little manipulation here and there with GIMP. (With the exception of a screenshot or two taken from my actual phone.)
> 
> \- [Awkwardoscar](http://awkwardoscar.tumblr.com) is both a generous and playful and kind beta and sounding board and also, my awkward modern!Thorin muse. Much love always <3
> 
> \- Britpicking was done by the amazing [Hidden Kitty](http://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com), to whom I am immensely grateful for straightening out my internationally capricious English.
> 
> \- All mistakes therefore remain my own, and I assure you I am very sorry for them all.


End file.
